


All Is Forgiven

by mistymountainking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bagginshield Hell, Bifur is an interior decorator of questionable taste, Bilbo does inappropriate things with inanimate objects, Bilbo is So Done, Getting Together, Helpful Dwarves, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Rebuilding Erebor, Thorin Broods, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, aggressive flirt!Bilbo, blushing!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistymountainking/pseuds/mistymountainking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bilbo is an aggressive flirt dealing with a dwarf king who is trying to be *contrite*, damn it, and who is struggling to comprehend why Master Baggins keeps doing suggestive things with his pipe, not to mention leaning on the arm of his throne and smiling at him like that. Said dwarf king also blushes so much, seriously, it’s probably bad for his health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as my best friend put it, "the tension between you and bagginshield was getting out of hand" so I wrote my first bagginshield fic. this was supposed to be a quick little thing but suddenly it was over 10k words long and I realized I can’t do shit by halves and I’m so weak for aggressive flirt!Bilbo and blushing!Thorin, so it’s a lot longer and more involved than I originally planned. I haven't written long form fic since my alonefreehearted days on ff.net so I'm a little rusty. 
> 
> bagginshield hell is real and I'm in it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t easy, Bilbo thought as he closed the lid on the pipe, being smitten with a dwarf king who was equal parts stubborn and oblivious.

Fíli and Kíli had just reached Bilbo’s door when they heard the noises coming from inside. They realized two things very quickly: 

The door was open, and Bilbo was alone but entirely too incensed for polite conversation, let alone a willing audience for an invitation to come to lunch.

Bilbo Baggins sounded thoroughly disgruntled as he paced around his chambers, and having suffered the barbed ends of that ill humor before, Fíli and Kíli both thought it best to slink away with their hides intact while they still could. 

Their presence outside his door went entirely unnoticed by the hobbit on the other side. Bilbo _was_ disgruntled, and his emphatic pacing was proof enough, back and forth across the furs laid out in front of the cold hearth. There wouldn’t be need for fire for months yet: it was summer now, as fine as any following a lean, cold winter and a long grey spring. 

Having chosen to remain in Erebor to see the Company returned to full health and to see the mountain restored, Bilbo could no longer tell the season or the weather simply by looking out a beveled window while nursing a cup of tea in his kitchen – now he relied on the words of others, and he frequently made the long walk to the reconstituted battlements to feel the air and see the world for himself. 

Summer in Erebor was dry and hot, and Bilbo never stayed on the battlements for very long in the direct sunlight. Sometimes he’d encounter one of the Company, Bofur or Glóin with whom he’d happily chat away an hour or two (sometimes Bifur was there, and those interactions tended to be brief), but most often he’d stand up there alone with the wind in his hair, delighting in the novelty of the view even so many months after they’d first arrived. 

Bilbo was returning from just such an excursion and was on his way back to his chambers for a bit of light reading – late Second Age Elvish trade agreements, nothing more – when the cause of his current consternation had come along and ruined his whole day. 

Thorin. 

Bilbo stood in front of the cold hearth and glared at the mantelpiece in front of his nose. Resting on the low stone shelf jutting out from the dark wall was Sting, clean and sharp and safe in the confines of its scabbard; the contract he’d signed, quite long ago now (longer than he cared to think); and a long wooden box inlaid with the customary angular tracery of the dwarves. Another one of Thorin’s “tokens,” given in the aftermath of the king’s coronation following his convalescence: the box itself, and inside it a new long-stemmed pipe made from dark, supple wood. Fashioned in likeness to the pipe he’d lost during the journey but far finer than anything that could be got in the Shire, the bowl was paneled with mother-of-pearl and a vein of it ran up the length of the stem. It was beautiful, that much was obvious. 

Thorin had made it, and Bilbo still couldn’t fathom that. 

Bilbo opened the box and looked at the decorative pipe, if only to remind himself of how ridiculous it really was. Four months on and Bilbo hadn’t used it once. He’d later asked Bofur in confidence to fashion him a plain one for regular use; that one now rested on the low table beside his favorite armchair, cooling from the rather fierce smoke he’d just had to stave the worst of his irritation. 

Four months. Four months of catching the stolen glances and the aborted touches out of the corner of his eye. Four blasted, insufferable _months_ of pussyfooting and lollygagging, overhearing snatches of strangers’ gossip in dark hallways and the countless _knowing looks_ thrown his way _._

Balin’s were the worst. The dwarf had no shame, it seemed, happily giving Bilbo those little eyebrow wags and nodding pointedly at the king during those dreadful council meetings with Dáin and Bard. Second to him was Dwalin, but at least _he_ had the good sense not to put his considerably large nose in it. Dwalin preferred to glower at Thorin, but Bilbo sensed it was for _his_ sake, and he couldn’t ask Dwalin to stop when he too often felt like glowering at Thorin. 

It wasn’t easy, Bilbo thought as he closed the lid on the pipe, being smitten with a dwarf king who was equal parts stubborn and oblivious. 

Their encounter in the corridor had been only a brief exchange – a nod, a tight smile, an attempt at words before a messenger came up huffing and puffing about a minor cave-in in one of the lower forges – but it had borne such similarity to almost, oh, _every encounter they’d had in the past four months_ that by the time the furred hem of Thorin’s deep blue mantle disappeared around the corner, Bilbo found he was all but shaking with anger and frustration and had high-tailed it to his chambers on the other side of the mountain. Only when he was in the privacy of his own rooms did he kick at the air and let loose a few choice words about kings and their thick skulls. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it?” Bilbo asked. He very nearly followed it with “And if you say ‘a token of our friendship’ I might throttle you.”

Bilbo still remembered every moment of Thorin’s coronation – the music, the finery, the deep, booming voices of the dwarves rising in triumph and happiness at the mountain king’s return – but most of all he remembered the vision that was Thorin in the aftermath of all the pomp and circumstance and revelry, in the comparatively quiet celebration held in the king’s quarters with the Company. He’d divested himself of his crown, his armor, all of the trappings that made him appear kingly in the eyes of those who knew no better and appeared before his Company as Thorin Oakenshield, humble and gratified. 

The dwarves had played music, sang songs, and ate and drank from the array Bombur had pilfered from the Great Hall (with the help of Nori and Fíli and Kíli, naturally). All the while Thorin had sat and watched them from a deep armchair, blowing smoke rings as round as Bilbo’s head and laughing and singing along when he felt like it. He was visibly exhausted from the day’s proceedings and having only a week before risen from his sickbed, but Thorin seemed to be acutely aware of how much it meant to the Company to celebrate this final victory amongst the fourteen of them.

Bilbo had joined the dwarves in their festivities for a while, but every few minutes he would look over at Thorin and catch him nodding in his chair or staring listlessly into the roaring fire, his still-burning pipe forgotten in his broad, heavy hand. Eventually there was nothing for it, and getting to his feet (and most certainly _not_ wobbling as he did so, thank you very much, Dori) Bilbo had marched up to Thorin’s side and announced _It’s high time the king got some rest, if he knows what’s good for him,_ to general cheer. 

And Bilbo still couldn’t put it out of his mind, the way Thorin’s eyes had fluttered open as if he’d been stirred from a daydream, nor least of all the expression on the dwarf’s face when he’d looked up at _Bilbo_ and nearly dropped his pipe on the floor. 

 _“What?” Thorin asked. Bilbo folded his arms and nodded pointedly at Thorin’s slumped posture and the lax grip he had on his pipe._  

 _“You’re nodding off, and unlike some here,_ I _haven’t lost sight of the fact that you are very much still wounded. And seeing as I’ve been in charge of it these past few months, I’m putting you to bed before you fall out of this chair onto your arse.”_

The dwarves’ caterwauling must have been too much for Thorin, who’d gone as red as a tomato before barking at them to be quiet. And oh, wasn’t _that_ a sight, Bilbo had thought as he’d accompanied a grudging dwarf king to the door of his inner chambers, far from where the Company were busy remarking (rather loudly) about _where else_ Thorin could put his arse. 

In almost a year of traveling, Bilbo had never seen Thorin blush. Not once. Now it seemed the dwarf who so loved to put on airs and made himself out to be ever-so-important had rather a propensity for them, and Bilbo quickly found himself developing a predilection for the sight of them. 

Thorin had opened the door to his chambers but had been quick to turn around and ask Bilbo to stay there for a moment while he retrieved something from inside. Bilbo had stood there for only a minute, hands folded behind his back and making faces at the Company who all seemed to have lost all shame and decorum (the _gestures,_ just the thought of them made Bilbo’s ears burn), when Thorin had returned with a long wooden box in his hands. 

Bilbo found himself on the other side of that door a moment later with that box held against him before he’d had a chance to realize what had happened. In much the same way as when Thorin had shoved the map against Bilbo’s chest, Bilbo brought his hands up to take the box from the dwarf who seemed determined _not_ to look him in the eye. Bilbo was considerably shorter than Thorin; looking _down_ wasn’t exactly helpful in terms of _avoiding_ eye contact. 

_“What is it?” Bilbo asked. He very nearly followed it with “And if you say ‘a token of our friendship’ I might throttle you.”_

_Thorin looked like he’d been chastised, and Bilbo felt himself losing his footing faster than he could hold on to it. Thorin_ would not _look him in the eye, but focused on the toes of his own boots. When he sighed it was like a boulder breaking off the side of the mountain and sliding slowly down to earth._

_“I cannot return the things you’ve lost on this journey – things you lost for my sake and that of my people–”_

_“Thorin, I told you before on Ra – before. I’m glad to have been a part of all of this,” he said, tipping his chin up at the ceiling as if it encompassed the whole of their accomplishments, the whole of their journey, Thorin and the Company and Erebor combined. “I promised I’d help.”_

_“And you did,” said Thorin, managing to raise his own head to look as high as Bilbo’s shoulder. That was an improvement, Bilbo thought. “You did more than was ever asked of you, much more than can be repaid by any sum. I can only hope that this might assuage some of the bitterness of all that you sacrificed, for me and my kin.”_

_Bilbo quickly realized when he went to open the box that his hands were covering Thorin’s. The dwarf flinched as he too seemed to come to the realization and dropped his hands as soon as they were freed. Bilbo tried not to feel the pinprick of hurt at the thought of Thorin not wanting to touch him and went about opening the mysterious box._

_“…oh,” said Bilbo, the word coming out on a puff of air. The firelight coming from the giant hearth on the other side of Thorin’s chamber caught the spectacular intricacies and colors in the pearl panels around the bowl of the handcrafted pipe. The box was lined with rich black velvet, soft and luxurious to the touch. Bilbo couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something so sumptuous, nor when last he’d received such a gift._

_Thorin seemed to take his silence as disappointment and began to speak. “If it’s not to your liking, there are others I made besides this one, if you prefer…”_

_That caught Bilbo’s attention. Dragged away from his awe, the hobbit looked right up at Thorin and almost laughed in disbelief._

_“You made this?”_

_“Aye,” said Thorin, and there was the color rising on his cheeks again. Perhaps being almost mortally wounded had done a number on Thorin’s blood flow and this was a new phenomenon – Bilbo delighted at the thought. Thorin sounded as if Bilbo had simply stated the obvious. “I had a significant amount of free time in my convalescence,” he continued. Bilbo was torn between wanting to inspect the pipe further and watching Thorin work through his admission, eventually deciding that the sight of Thorin Oakenshield searching for the right words was far too novel to miss._

_“Yes you did, once Óin was satisfied that your insides would stay_ in _and you would stay alive,” Bilbo rejoined. That made Thorin look him in the eye._

_“You saw that?”_

_Bilbo felt compelled to close the box and put it on the floor next to him. It was shockingly heavy, but he shouldn’t have expected anything less coming from a dwarf._

_“I saw far too much of your insides for comfort, Thorin. I still have nightmares about it, to be quite honest with you,” said Bilbo. Thorin blanched, and the hobbit was quick to follow his statement with: “But I had hope for your survival, and here you are. Here we all are! I would wade through that field of dismemberment all over again if it meant keeping any one of you alive, comfort be damned.”_

_Much to Bilbo’s surprise (and lasting bewilderment), his little quip wasn’t met with mirth, not even a twinkling of an eye; rather, Thorin seemed to wilt at the words, and not in any way Bilbo would have liked. The dwarf angled himself away from him and faced the firelight._

_“You’ve already done more than I can repay in currency or in gratitude. I fear, Master Baggins, that I will forever be insurmountably in your debt.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous! What could there possibly be that makes you think you’re indebted to me?”_

_Thorin visibly grimaced._

_“Thorin?”_

_The slow and halting glance the dwarf cast in the direction of Bilbo’s neck was all the answer Bilbo needed to understand Thorin’s withdrawal and talk of ‘debt.’ A silence settled between them then, more impenetrable than any mithril shirt and not half as lovely. The sounds of merriment coming from the Company hadn’t dimmed in the minutes Bilbo and Thorin had been speaking, but now in the overwhelming quiet surrounding them it seemed all the louder._

_The fire snapped and licked at the smooth stone walls of Thorin’s chambers, and Bilbo was struck by how desperately he wanted to speak to Thorin about this. ‘I forgave you,’ Bilbo thought loudly to himself – ‘I’ve forgiven you thrice over, stubborn dwarf!’_

_But Thorin was resolved to turn himself to stone, if his demeanor and posture were any indication. The sight of the proud dwarf reaching down and picking up the box stopped any and all words on Bilbo’s tongue, and he took the box with a short nod, snapping his mouth shut when he realized it had been hanging open._

_“It is a token of apology,” Thorin muttered in a low voice, “as much as it is a token of my deep and abiding gratitude. Should you–” Thorin’s expression shuttered and he stepped back. Bilbo felt the hair on his head stir in the rush of air in his wake. Thorin was committed to burying himself in his shame, and Bilbo, for the first time in his life, found himself utterly at a loss for words to deter him from it. “No, I don’t suppose…well. Know that you are welcome to stay here as long as you desire, and when you wish to journey westward toward your homeland, I will make every arrangement I can to aid you in your travels.”_

_Bilbo blinked. Before he could even say his name, he found himself back on the other side of Thorin’s door, and as soon as the latch slipped into place, he felt in no mood to deal with any more dwarves and fled the king’s quarters as fast as his two feet could carry him, Thorin’s gift held tight against his chest._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company seemed to be perfectly content to watch their king and their hobbit dilly dally around each other from the sidelines, wagering and gossiping amongst themselves, the louts.

Bilbo moved away from the fireplace, stirring from the grips of the memory with a shudder. Blinking the imagined haze of pipe smoke and firelight from his eyes, he wandered over to his plush armchair and fell right into it with a sigh. Pacing and ranting no longer satisfied Bilbo’s frustrations – if anything, doing so only exacerbated them. 

For four months he’d struggled in vain against Thorin’s decision to repent for his actions by shutting himself off from Bilbo. The dwarf’s stubbornness had been admirable and encouraging in the past, even somewhat dashing to a hobbit whose worldly experience was more than limited prior to his running off with thirteen dwarves; there was something to be said for a person who was that determined to win back a mountain from a dragon. That said person looked and sounded and _was_ Thorin Oakenshield was just nail after nail in the proverbial coffin. 

Bilbo huffed and dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in King Thorin II was a dwarf who wanted to be his friend again. If Bilbo was feeling generous and self-assured, he might even allow himself to imagine Thorin Oakenshield wanted more than friendship. The matter of the mithril shirt still nagged at him to this day, and the gifting of the pipe shortly thereafter did not help. Something had to be done, and none of the Company seemed particularly interested in helping move things along – indeed, they all seemed to be perfectly content to watch their king and their hobbit dilly dally around each other from the sidelines, wagering and gossiping amongst themselves, the louts. 

Bilbo couldn’t stop the exasperated laugh that bubbled up from his chest as he let his memories fly from one to the next, as recent as the incident in the corridor all the way back to the first time he and Thorin laid eyes on each other, when the dwarf had been so grand and important and confident and Bilbo had been just a hobbit in a hole under a hill in the Shire. So much had changed from that moment to this, Bilbo realized, their roles not least of all. Bilbo was now dwarf-friend, barrel-rider, luck-wearer; Thorin was King Under the Mountain, but Bilbo was Master Burglar, and such a title had to count for something. 

If Thorin was determined to punish himself over what had transpired between he and Bilbo on the ramparts – that insufferable business with the Arkenstone, and dragon sickness, and _war_ to boot – and ignore Bilbo’s repeated admissions of forgiveness, then it seemed another method would be required to get it through Thorin’s thick skull that all was very much forgiven, and then some.     

Of all the outlandish plots Bilbo had ever devised, this was certain to be the most entertaining. Four months of Thorin’s misplaced self-restraint and the months of _perhaps_ leading up to the battle was enough waiting for Bilbo Baggins. And after enduring that much time in the twisting agony of their enforced division, he deserved to have a little fun. The Company could wager as they liked, and Balin would finally have no need to waggle his eyebrows like _that_ ever again. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, he’s not exactly tickled to have to sit at the same table as the man and listen to all that talk about ‘cooperation with the elves’ and the like.” 
> 
> Bilbo smiled conspiratorially at the brother. 
> 
> “And we here know your feelings about cooperating with elves, don’t we, Fíli?” 
> 
> “We do indeed, Master Baggins.”

The first opportunity for Bilbo to enact his little scheme came quite by chance, as it happened. Later that same evening, Bilbo was interrupted from his reading (Second Age trade agreements werequite dull, he quickly discovered) by two unique hands knocking on his chamber door. 

“Come in!” he called out, already prepared for who was on the other side. The door swung wide on its hinges and in walked Fíli and Kíli both, dressed down for the customary evening meal with the rest of the Company and each sporting enough of a smirk to make Bilbo lower his book. “If you two are here to cause trouble, I’ll have none of it, thank you.” 

“Who said anything about trouble?” said Fíli, eyes glinting in the candlelight. It was no small wonder that despite having been run through during the battle, he still carried on as unaffected as he had been in Bag End. Bilbo so admired his resilience. 

“You two don’t _have_ to say anything,” Bilbo replied, snapping the book shut on Kíli’s prying nose. The young dwarf jumped away like a horse who’d gotten a switch across the muzzle. 

“We only came to bring you along to dinner,” said Kíli, sounding terribly put out. Bilbo smiled at them. Smiles came easier to him in recent days, and with his newly decided plan of attack on Thorin tucked nicely away in the back of his mind, they came easier still. 

“Well if that’s the case, lead on!” 

They walked unhurriedly to the smaller mess hall through various corridors flooded with torchlight. The light from the flames could never quite reach the lofted joints of the ceilings up there in the high dark, which always gave the distinct impression of there being no ceiling whatsoever. Bilbo still caught himself wondering now and again, especially with a tankard or three of ale in his belly, if one day he might not lose footing and simply disappear down a tunnel or even float up to the ceiling, never to be seen again.

In his present company, however, he had no concerns about falling down any mine shafts or disappearing anywhere. Their talk quickly turned to table guests, much to Bilbo’s delight. 

“Thorin _made time_ to join us,” said Kíli with an eye toward the hobbit who pointedly ignored him. “I was beginning to wonder if he’d decided we weren’t worth the evening headache.” 

“He hasn’t eaten with the Company in quite some time, has he?” Bilbo thought aloud. 

“Not since the solstice,” said Fíli, counting backwards on his fingers. He wore a new ring on his left hand, given to him by his uncle after the coronation; Bilbo felt the weight of his own gift on the inside of his jacket. “Three weeks ago, now!” 

“He _has_ been awfully distracted lately,” said Kíli, jostling Bilbo with a pointy elbow. Thank goodness the dwarf wasn’t wearing any armor, thought Bilbo, massaging his ribs. 

“Aye, moodier than usual,” Fíli concurred. “Do you think it’s because of the recent dealings with Bard?” 

“Well, he’s not exactly _tickled_ to have to sit at the same table as the man and listen to all that talk about ‘cooperation with the elves’ and the like.” Kíli picked something out of his teeth without an ounce of shame. Bilbo smiled conspiratorially at the brother.

“And we here know your feelings about cooperating with elves, don’t we, Fíli?” 

“We do indeed, Master Baggins.” 

Kíli turned red, and Bilbo wondered – not for the last time – if blushing was a family trait amongst the Durins. He rather hoped it was. The young dwarf grumbled something only Fíli understood, but Bilbo could still have a laugh at his expense. It was in that state of mirth they entered the small mess hall walking three abreast, faces pink from laughter, to cries of cheer and welcome from the rest of the Company. 

The Company had outfitted the space in the early aftermath of the battle as a place of rest and relaxation, a place for themselves away from the onslaught of newcomers flooding the mountain. A long narrow table took the place of honor in the center of the cavernous room (as most of the rooms in Erebor seemed to be) while the dark stone walls had been covered over with found tapestries, furs, and other trimmings (Bifur was a…questionable interior decorator, but far be it from Bilbo to be one to criticize the aesthetic tendencies of dwarves in their own home, and the others seemed quite pleased with the results). It had been in a moment of cotton-headed curiosity that Bilbo had peeked behind one of the tapestries covering the walls only to discover the veins of gold embedded in the stone, and that was all it took for him to realize _why_ it was all there in the first place. 

Flush against the farthest wall was Bombur’s makeshift kitchen, over which he was currently bustling as if the fire was under him and not in front. The others in the Company made room for Fíli, Kíli, and Bilbo with the standard fanfare, complete with good-natured back slapping and shoulder grabbing. Dwalin got a particular good handful on the meat of Bilbo’s right shoulder and dug his fingers in with a deep laugh. 

“Have you been sleeping on rocks, Master Baggins?” he exclaimed, already working on the stubborn knot with abandon. Bilbo, now quite used to the characteristic ah, _handsy_ habits of his friends, leaned into the pressure and sighed. 

“Lots of late nights reading more than I ought,” Bilbo replied to a chorus of rolling laughter that peaked suddenly when the last of their Company walked in. Bilbo perked up and looked over at the doorway to see Thorin standing there, darkness at his back and the full flush of firelight at his front, burnishing his skin and turning the silver in his hair to gold. The expression on his face flitted from surprise to amusement before slipping into something that bordered dangerously on shyness, of all things. Bilbo’s breath caught, and Dwalin’s fingers immediately stilled, fearing he’d dug in a little too hard. Bilbo listed, his balance upended when the solid support of Dwalin’s hand disappeared; recovering quickly, he seized the edge of the bench under him with both hands and offered him a wry little expression. Dwalin gave him a nod and a wink. 

“You should see about getting help with those books, Master Baggins,” he whispered under the hubbub of Fíli and Kíli’s loud welcome of their uncle into their midst. Bilbo did not miss the glint in Dwalin’s eye, the innuendo, or the direction in which he flicked his glance. Bilbo too looked down the table at Thorin who had taken a seat at the head and was leaning forward on his elbows, listening attentively to what his nephews had to say. Bilbo went to respond when Bombur’s meaty arm appeared between them, setting a heaping plate down in front of Dwalin, and Bilbo shortly thereafter. 

“Believe me,” said Bilbo, now looking directly at Thorin and feeling particularly vexed when he was ignored, “I plan to.” The knot in his shoulder throbbed as if to make its own feelings on the matter known. Bringing himself off with his own hand night after night for months on end had done nothing to stave his appetite and had done a number on his muscles, too, apparently. Dwalin knew the true cause, and Bilbo no longer had it in him to preserve his dignity but let the understanding hang between them. _I want him,_ Bilbo thought, not for the first time, looking up at Dwalin with just the shadow of a small, self-effacing smile before tucking into his meal. 

He received a firm pat on the back for it. _I know,_ it seemed to say, and on the other hand _please for the love of Aulë, have him._ If anyone at that table was well aware of the nuisance that was Thorin’s self-imposed punishment, the pushing away of Bilbo _for Bilbo’s sake,_ it was Dwalin. No doubt the poor dwarf had suffered enough nights at Thorin’s side, listening to whatever Thorin did or did not have to say about the situation. Bilbo rather hoped Thorin had said _something_ about it over the past months. Judging by the harried expression on Dwalin’s face when they looked at each other again, Bilbo knew he was right on the mark. 

The conspiracy between he and Dwalin went unnoticed by everyone else at the table for the duration of the meal. As had been the case since the fiasco after Thorin’s coronation, no one made any outward attempt to make Thorin speak directly to Bilbo but let the pieces of the evening fall where they may. Supper was eventually cleared away and the Company scattered about the spacious room in clusters, some bent over in private conversation and others retrieving instruments from a nearby cache to play quietly in the background; Thorin was one of the former, standing by the door with Balin next him, speaking in low tones. 

Lucky for Bilbo, Thorin was facing in his direction, and he took his chance. Perched on top of an upended wine barrel with Bofur, Fíli, Kíli, Ori and Nori bunched up on the floor in front of him and Dwalin sprawled out on his left, Bilbo made a show of opening his jacket, the deep blue fabric warm to the touch and bunching up in his fingers nicely. He knew when Thorin glanced at him - he always felt the weight of that gaze even across the yawning distance of the throne room - and seized the moment. 

“Has anyone got a match?” he asked the group sat immediately around him. Everyone began to pat around their pockets while Bilbo slowly removed Thorin’s gift pipe and a leather tobacco pouch from his inner pocket, making a point to let the firelight catch on the pearlescent surface of the bowl before letting his gaze drag over to meet Thorin’s. 

“Aye laddy, here you go,” said Dwalin, perfectly on cue. Bilbo was pleased to note that words appeared to have died on Thorin’s lips as he bestowed Dwalin with a grateful smile and finished packing the leaf into the bowl before leaning forward and bowing his head to catch the fire at the end of the match. _Nothing for it,_ he thought. _Four months,_ his mind reminded him; Bilbo looked up at Thorin from under his lashes and made a pretty point of hollowing his cheeks as the leaf caught fire and started to smolder. 

 _Stunned_ may have been the literal description of Thorin’s expression then, but Bilbo much preferred to think he looked _dazed, enthralled,_ and, as he was feeling particularly self-satisfied in that moment, _affected,_ if the round eyes and rapid coloring of his cheeks was any indication. Thorin was about as subtle as a hammer striking an anvil, really, and the cut of his tunic did nothing to conceal how low that blush traveled. Bilbo finally lowered his eyes when he felt the smoke fill his lungs and leaned away from Dwalin with a smile. He turned his attention back to the dwarves nearest him, content to blow smoke rings and sit under the weight of Thorin’s gaze for a while, knowing full well that there would be no conversation had between them tonight. 

A few minutes later the door to the mess hall shut and the dwarves converged on Bilbo in a crush, chattering excitedly over one another; Bifur in particular was gesticulating with renewed vigor. Balin shushed them all with a holler and waited for the noise to die off before speaking. 

“I ought to commend you on your little ploy, Master Baggins,” he said with a twinkle ready in his eye. Dwalin choked on his own pipe smoke and laughed. 

“Aye, I think the poor bastard stopped breathing for a moment there.” 

“Do you think it’ll work?” Bofur asked. 

“Of course it will! If Master Baggins could charm a dragon, he can certainly charm Thorin Oakenshield out of the little snit he’s put himself in,” said Nori. Bifur made a lewd gesture that got everyone howling, Bilbo included, and the rest of the night passed in a similar fashion, in good company.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m meeting with Dáin tomorrow,” said Thorin, avoiding Bilbo’s line of sight. “When last we spoke he told me to brush up on the trade agreements my grandfather had composed during his rule—”
> 
> “And like any student with a task they don’t wish to complete, you waited until the night before to read it.”

Thorin seemed to have forgotten the incident with the pipe by the time Bilbo saw him again two days later. It never ceased to amaze the hobbit just how busy being king could make a person, and Bilbo was often plagued with concern for him. It wasn’t long ago that Thorin was laid out on what many - including Bilbo - had assumed to be his deathbed. The words spoken between them on Ravenhill lingered on the air whenever Bilbo stood at Thorin’s bedside and watched the dwarf swing between on the mend and slipping away like a pendulum; there was never a moment for sure footing, and they’d left the rest of the words - the others that needed saying - for another time. 

‘Another time’ had come and gone too many times to count, as evidenced by Thorin’s severe inward withdrawal against which Bilbo now struggled. However, the struggle might yet turn out to be little more than a minor inconvenience if Bilbo’s plan to flirt Thorin into submission was successful. First he had to remind Thorin of what had happened the other night in the mess hall, as a kindness. The dwarf may have drunk more that night than Bilbo realized and had a spotty memory. That was easily rectified, and Bilbo set about doing so with aplomb. 

His twelve conspirators came in quite handy in the interim, tracking the movements and doings of King Thorin with the benefit of being under no suspicion of doing such things; the Company of Thorin Oakenshield enjoyed a degree of freedom to move about the mountain as they liked, no orders required, regardless of their titles. Fíli and Kíli were just as often spotted in the mines with sooty faces and broken fingernails as Bifur and Bofur were spotted in the royal suites, transcribing dwarvish runes from off the walls for use throughout the mountain; Ori spent most of his time in the library, left to his own devices while Dori chased Nori throughout Erebor to make sure he wasn’t stealing anything of _vital_ importance; Dwalin and Balin remained Thorin’s most trusted advisors (although even they could not get Thorin to break on the issue of having already earned Bilbo’s forgiveness - _he firmly believes he’s done you irrevocable harm and won’t budge on it no matter what either of us say,_ Dwalin had said weeks after the coronation) and kept a close eye on him, but when the mountain grew too close and the shadows deepened in his eyes, Thorin would take to the battlements where Glóin was often on watch. 

Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli all were duty-bound to visit Óin once a week for an assessment; Bombur was often in the Company mess where Thorin would come at odd hours for meals, but the rotund dwarf also took a particular liking to navigating the lower halls and taking inventory of the various storerooms that had been left to gather dust for decades. Bilbo too was free to move about the mountain has he wished, but the majority of his time was spent in the library with Ori or in the Company mess, always winding up in his own room alone and miserable. 

Now he had twelve loyal dwarves in his confidence, all of whom were more than ready to see Thorin Oakenshield return to himself and accept the forgiveness not only of their burglar, but all of them. It didn’t take a jeweler’s glass like Balin’s to notice the way Thorin withdrew from meals with the Company early (when he had them) or how he seemed to always shrink in their presence, especially all of them together. Their king was in poor spirits, and they all had an interest in seeing a change. The wagers they’d made on _who makes the first move_ and _how soon after the coronation will they make it_ fell by the wayside in favor of putting all of their efforts toward spying on Thorin for Bilbo, a task they all took to with unsettling gleefulness. 

It was Dori who sent word to Bilbo via Nori that he’d overheard Thorin telling Balin he wanted to read up on Erebor’s past trade agreements to better serve him in council meetings with Dáin and Bard and, should it come to it eventually, Thranduil himself. Once Bilbo had wrapped his head around all of it (Nori’s longwinded retelling of events didn’t help), he’d set off immediately for the library. 

‘Library’ was still a generous term to bestow upon the mess that was the remnants of what had once been a truly magnificent collection of books, scrolls, and ancient stone tablets carved with unfamiliar runes. Ori and Bilbo had spent the months since the coronation hard at work cleaning and rearranging it into a semblance of order, to minor success. Newcomers to the mountain would go as far as poking their heads through the gap in the door before ducking out again, leaving Ori and Bilbo to their devices. They’d managed to stack the surviving bound books into hundreds of piles by subject; the scrolls they arranged on various shelves as they found them; the tablets they leaned up against the wall closest to where they were found. There was a daily effort, and Bilbo had intimate knowledge of what was where should someone come looking for something. 

Thorin did just that, as Dori and Nori had reported, right around tea time like they’d suspected. Ori had scarpered a few minutes prior to the king’s arrival, leaving Bilbo alone in the cavernous library with only a single torch on the wall and a mountain of books to sort through. It was a nice problem to have, albeit a bit dark, until Thorin walked in with a second torch and audibly drew a sharp breath. 

“Master Baggins,” he said amiably enough, “are you looking for something?” 

Bilbo, standing in the light and looking at Thorin’s silhouette against the doorway with a thrill in his blood, stood up straight and laughed. He knew from previous experience how much Thorin seemed to like his hair, and he’d often heard from the other dwarves how much it looked like gold filigree in firelight; he perched one hand on his hip and ruffled his slightly overgrown mop of hair with the other. The entrance to the library wasn’t so far away that Thorin would miss the effect. 

“Ori and I have been working together on all this,” said Bilbo, gesturing at the massive space and the insurmountable clutter. As if to prove his point, he reached down to pull a piece of parchment off the bottom of his foot: “But I do take a few with me every week to pour over in private when the mood strikes me.” 

Thorin seemed to hesitate for a moment in the doorway as if he didn’t want to disturb Bilbo’s work. Bilbo set his feet on the floor and smiled. “Were _you_ looking for something?” 

Thorin remembered himself then. He started forward in Bilbo’s direction, shifting the torch from his right hand to his left. Bilbo watched him approach with a familiar yearning tugging at him; today Thorin was outfitted all in black, or perhaps it was deep navy blue playing at black in the low light, his hair braided and tied away from his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. The tug of yearning veered sharply - dangerously - into the territory of _want_ and Bilbo felt his mouth go dry. He wore light armor similar to what he’d worn in Bag End so long ago and the requisite iron-shod boots. It all seemed like such a weight to carry, but for a dwarf, Bilbo had often been assured, the weight was no more a burden than a hobbit’s pack. 

There were now two points of heat bearing down on Bilbo. He wavered for a moment, overwhelmed by Thorin’s sudden proximity after so much time apart, before collecting his wits with a little nod to himself. Adjusting his limbs accordingly, Bilbo maneuvered himself to let Thorin look at the stack of books behind him and waited for the other shoe to drop. 

Thorin made an aborted sound of surprise deep in his chest. “How convenient…” 

“What is?” Bilbo asked, knowing full well what he meant: he’d put himself and his torch right next to the towering stacks of books on Ereborian diplomacy, including trade agreements, industrial and agricultural contract law, rules of succession, and others of a similar nature. 

“I’m meeting with Dáin tomorrow,” said Thorin, avoiding Bilbo’s line of sight. “When last we spoke he told me to brush up on the trade agreements my grandfather had composed during his rule—”

“And like any student with a task they don’t wish to complete, you waited until the night before to read it,” Bilbo finished for him. Thorin couldn’t _not_ look at him, then, and when their eyes met Bilbo was pleased to note the chastened look on Thorin’s face. He smiled. 

“I think you’ll find what you need in one of these,” said Bilbo, turning in toward Thorin to point at the stack of books. Thorin visibly withdrew in reaction to Bilbo’s closeness, and that just wouldn’t do. The hobbit folded his arms across his chest and tilted himself at the hips and up onto the balls of his feet to whisper low and smooth in Thorin’s ear: “Just start at the top and work your way down to the base.” 

Bilbo added a tick mark in his imaginary column on the scorecard of Thorin’s blushes and stepped back to allow him some room to breathe. Thorin’s sudden coughing fit wasn’t alarming at all. Quite the opposite: Bilbo had to smother his laughter behind his hand and turned away to hide the worst of his mirth from his victim. But Thorin was too preoccupied with clearing his throat to notice Bilbo’s reaction. Taking pity on the poor dwarf, Bilbo returned to Thorin’s side and put a compassionate hand on his shoulder. 

“The dust in here is a menace, I should have warned you.” 

Thorin wasn’t quick enough to wipe away the tears from the corners of his eyes before Bilbo saw them. “An inevitable outcome of so many years of neglect,” he said. Bilbo nodded and let his hand fall away with a pang of remorse. The temptation to grab hold of Thorin’s mass of hair was almost too much to resist, and he put his hands behind his back to make sure. 

“Hmm, true. I doubt Smaug was very much a learned dragon, not by a long road.” 

That earned him a soft laugh, and Bilbo felt the cockles of his heart warm at the sound. “Dragons have no love of books,” said Thorin. “They measure the worth of a hoard by how much it shines, not by its inherent value.” Thorin glanced at Bilbo then, and for a split second Bilbo thought he saw something of the old Thorin in that look, shy but earnest and so wonderfully endearing, the opposite of the doubtful dwarf who’d taken his place these past months. For a moment he had Thorin Oakenshield back, and Bilbo was loathe to see him recede again when the moment inevitably passed. 

“Well then,” he said with a nod, sticking a thumb behind a suspender and rocking on his feet as he reached into his breast pocket, “if you need me I’ll be looking for a place to smoke where I won’t be in danger of setting quite so much important material on fire.” He removed the decorative gift pipe from his pocket and had to restrain himself from whooping victoriously when the same look of recognition and flustered pleasure he’d seen in the mess hall flitted across Thorin’s face. The dwarf was in good company, surrounded by open books, Bilbo thought. He watched as Thorin first stared at the pipe he’d made for Bilbo - _‘a token of apology’ my feet_ \- and eventually drew his eyes up to look at him directly. Only then did Bilbo slide the finely whittled mouth of the pipe between his teeth with a wag of his eyebrows and just a hint of tongue before sealing his lips around it and sauntering away to the sound of Thorin struggling to breathe. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori immediately went pink around the ears and made to flee. “I think I heard Dori calling…or Nori? I’ll be back after lunch, Bilbo!” he called out as he darted past Thorin and out the door, leaving the two remaining occupants alone and grasping at thin air for words.

Bilbo had to admire Thorin for his resilience. Over the course of two weeks following the incident in the library, Bilbo had said and done enough flirtatious things to bring down an _elf,_ but Thorin withstood the onslaught with commendable (and infuriating) patience. Bilbo wondered after every instance if perhaps his skill was lacking, or if Thorin was simply not interested. That thought got stuck deep under Bilbo’s skin for almost a week before he happened to accost Thorin coming out of the throne room without the aid of the other dwarves and Thorin had blushed the moment he’d laid eyes on Bilbo and hurried away. 

It wasn’t an issue of Thorin being uninterested or even unaffected - _the dratted dwarf just wouldn’t let go of what was already long in the past._ But that never lessened Bilbo’s delight in making Thorin Oakenshield blush and stammer and on one particularly occasion, stumble (he’d been lounging against some steps with his jacket and waistcoat laid out next to him following long labor in the library, speaking to Dwalin about the situation when Thorin had come down the stairs from one of the upper conference chambers looking about ready to fly into a rage. Dwalin had stopped him with a word; with the king thus distracted, Bilbo had made quick work of the top two buttons of his shirt and mussed his hair before moving his hand to the back of his neck and massaging the ‘sore’ muscles there. He _may_ have let his legs drop open slightly. For effect. When Thorin had turned to address him in passing, he’d gone beet red and fled without so much as a ‘Good Evening,’ tripping ever so slightly on the last step).

Bilbo hadn’t heard Dwalin laugh like that in far too long. _“Try not to kill the poor sod before you get your hands on him, aye?”_

In lieu of a verbal response, Bilbo had collapsed back against the stairs and smacked his forehead with his hand with a groan. At least Dwalin  and the others found it all _amusing_ enough to tolerate. He was still going to bed unsatisfied every night, _alone_. 

The problem was, Bilbo’s efforts did seem to be having some effect, albeit not on Thorin’s feelings towards _Bilbo._ In that short time, Thorin had taken more and more meals with the Company, plenty of which Bilbo missed because he’d become engrossed in this or that book; after every instance they reported to Bilbo that the king seemed to be returning to his normal state, engaging everyone in the Company in conversation both as a group and individually, thanking them twice over for their help in reclaiming Erebor as if he hadn’t said the same things while on the verge of death months before. 

That was all well and good, Bilbo surmised, chewing grumpily on the end of his pipe - _his_ pipe, the one given to him, _made_ for him, by Thorin - and blowing smoke rings up into the midday sky from his place atop the battlements. Summer was now at its height, the heat satisfying and encouraging after so long a winter, and Bilbo was watching the road with some others from the Company, anticipating the arrival of the elvenking. Delegations were scheduled for the majority of the day; Thranduil was coming from Dale where the welcome was warmer, no skin off the backs of any of the dwarves. 

Bilbo’s thoughts were drifting, remembering the various moments over the last two weeks when he’d managed to get Thorin to blush or even crack a smile: there had been another inappropriate misuse of the pipe on the battlements, along with a few occasions when Bilbo had gotten deliberately messy with his dinner (finger foods, as he’d requested of Bombur) and stuck a finger slicked with grease between his lips to suck the flavor off his skin (Thorin had buried the lower half of his face behind his hand on each occasion and very deliberately acted as if _he hadn’t seen a thing_ ). 

Bilbo blew a smoke ring and watched it drop off the edge of the ramparts before his mind recalled the events from the day before, and suddenly it wasn’t just the heat of the sun warming him down to his toes: 

_Thorin knocked before entering the library the second time. Ori popped up like a gopher from beneath a mound of unfurled scrolls and looked across the vast room at Bilbo. The room was flooded with natural light thanks to the number of small round windows they’d discovered quite by chance a few days before, and it was very easy to see the nervous expression on Ori’s face as the door swung open. Thorin made a shocked sound when he entered, but it wasn’t any fault of Bilbo’s this time: the hobbit looked over his shoulder at the king from his spot on the ladder to see Thorin shielding his eyes from the flood of daylight._

_“I forgot the library had windows,” he said._

_“Bilbo found them!” piped Ori from his burrow of scrolls. Thorin dropped his hand, glancing in Ori’s direction in surprise. The young dwarf immediately went pink around the ears and made to flee. “I think I heard Dori calling…or Nori? I’ll be back after lunch, Bilbo!” he called out as he darted past Thorin and out the door, leaving the two remaining occupants alone and grasping at thin air for words. It didn’t help that Bilbo was currently twelve feet up a sixteen foot ladder and feeling very much like he was about to plummet to his death, not that Thorin need know any of that._

_The dwarf in question came further into the great library and appeared to marvel at the progress Bilbo and Ori had made in just over a week. Books were back on refitted and reinforced shelves which were individually labeled with single runes by letter. There were a few thousand books still stacked in towers across the floor, but there were no more piles of paper mess anywhere. Ori’s mound of scrolls was contained chaos and the rest had been neatly rolled and stored on brand new shelves. At a large table in the center of the library - no doubt originally intended for scholarship and studying of so many ancient texts - papers covered in Ori’s angular hand and Bilbo’s round, flowing script were strewn about. They had spent minutes here and there determining a key by which to organize the library, to no avail. Did no one in Middle-earth want to keep records with any accuracy? Gandalf had mentioned the archives of Gondor during their travels where he had done much study in his countless years; Bilbo had felt both awed and horrified at the idea of the entire wealth of knowledge of Gondor just sitting underground gathering dust (“And_ smoking, _Gandalf! Really!”)_

_But Bilbo was proud of what he and Ori had accomplished despite the odds quite literally stacked against them. He also was quite proud of the words that came to mind when Thorin looked up from a page covered in Bilbo’s writing at the hobbit, himself. He knew Thorin could see very well at a distance and smiled wide._

_“Like what you see?” he asked. The fingers resting on the page twitched and Bilbo’s smile broadened. Thorin was wearing his hair down, which meant there was no telling if his ears were pink; Bilbo liked to think they were, and warm to the touch. Oh, there went that_ want _unfurling deep in his belly. He turned back to the towering bookshelf and placed another in its proper place with a satisfied hum. “Ori and I have been working tirelessly all week to get this place back into some kind of order,” he continued, putting away the last three books in the stack before beginning the climb back down the ladder. “Thank goodness Erebor has cured me of my disdain for being above the ground! I would never have had the courage to climb so high if it weren’t for all these great heights.”_

_When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he jumped off the last rung onto the floor and instinctively took a step back. Cured of his disdain or no, any time spent willingly that far above ground was too much. To Bilbo’s great surprise, rather than walking backwards into thin air, he instead collided with something very solid, very tall, and very warm. Before he could register the shuddering breath brushing against the shell of his ear, however, that very solid very tall very warm presence disappeared and he stumbled in place. Bilbo remained facing the bookshelf, pursing his lips and taking only a moment to gather his wits about him - a struggle, but in the end he triumphed, even if turning around to face Thorin in that moment was one of the bravest things he ever did._

_The dwarf appeared perfectly composed, of course. The hard outer shell he’d built around himself to keep his feelings in and Bilbo out was as strong as ever, and even Bilbo’s coy look couldn’t chip it. Thorin asked, “I thought I might browse for a while, but I don’t wish to impede you in your work.”_

_Bilbo started. “Browse? Isn’t Thranduil coming tomorrow from Dale?”_

_“Are you saying I should be studying, Master Baggins?”_

_Bilbo frowned at the use of ‘Master Baggins’ like he always did ever since the battle. Once he’d heard his name trip off Thorin’s tongue, there was nothing else he preferred. But Thorin seemed to distance himself from Bilbo not only in deeds, but from his very name, and any and all feelings of want and softer things shriveled up at the thought._

_“Far be it from me to tell the king he should do anything, I think,” said Bilbo, looking Thorin square in the eye. “I’m only surprised to hear you take any pleasure from_ browsing, _is all.”_

_Thorin averted his gaze and sighed. “This place was a refuge for me when I was a child,” he said in a moment of humbling transparency. “There are some books that are dear to me that I greatly wish to find again.”_

_Bilbo struggled to find the words. Finally he fought his way around the lump in his throat and said: “What are their names? I may have already shelved them. I could find them for you…” and suddenly Bilbo was once again looking at Thorin Oakenshield, back from his fruitless self-imposed inner exile and beaming ever so sweetly at him, the sunlight catching the blue of his eyes and turning them into sapphires. Bilbo gaped despite himself._

_Was that it? But Bilbo had tried earnestness before; he’d leaned over Thorin as he lay dying (or so they both thought) and forgiven him. He’d sat at Thorin’s bedside for almost two weeks waiting for him to awaken from fever and darkness and had been ready with words of relief and gratitude and forgiveness when Thorin had finally opened his eyes. He had made every effort to accommodate Thorin’s sensitivity toward the residual fallout of the gold sickness and never spoke an ill word about it, never again made mention of the events at the gate after Ravenhill._

_Bilbo was utterly flummoxed. Thorin had rejected kindness; he was unresponsive to flirting besides blushing and stuttering (and Bilbo cherished each and every moment) and yet here in this dusty library offering to find a book or two, Thorin seemed willing to meet Bilbo halfway in resolution. And more than any desire he had for Thorin, Bilbo at the end of the day just wanted his friend back. Pulling him out of darkness only to lose him again to one of Thorin’s own design was maddening, and the hobbit was half-ready to grab Thorin by the woven collar of his tunic and shake him if it meant getting him to come to his senses._

_But that was quite a mouthful, so Bilbo edited it down to size: “…if you want.”_

Bilbo exhaled a messy plume of sweet smoke and sat up straight at the sound of a horn blowing from away down the road. The dwarves bustled to return the call, and Bilbo got to his feet, tamping out the ash from his pipe and resolving to be finished with this, this, this _nonsense_ once and for all. 

He didn’t bother to watch as Thranduil and his attachés rode in from Dale in all their finery, even though he was quite partial to the way they always seemed to be followed by the sound of little silver bells wherever they went. 

As soon as he passed out of the sight of the battlements and the main gate, Bilbo slipped his hand into his pocket and disappeared without a trace. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish they’d take their prattle elsewhere. There are more pressing matters to attend to that have nothing to do with crops.”

The decision to hold court with Thranduil in the throne room and not in a separate council chamber had not been Thorin’s idea. Balin had been the one to recommend it, citing that if Thranduil saw Thorin on the throne, it was likely to make a much stronger impression on the elf lord than if Thorin received him in some dusty room off the beaten path. 

 _“Let him see you in your glory,”_ Balin had urged with all of his characteristic warmth and earnestness: _“Only right after he made you crane your neck just to speak to him in his throne room.”_

With his back flush against the stone and his two boots planted firmly on the floor, Thorin was inclined to agree with Balin’s choice. There was no need for any craning from his place on the dais, unless it was to bow his head a fraction of an inch when Thranduil first approached. 

Both parties preferred to be done with the matter as quickly as possible. Thranduil asked for no seat and none was offered to him; his entourage stood apart from him on the bridge in two rows of three, all of them pointedly _not_ looking down at the abyss beneath their feet. Balin was currently speaking at length about the necessity trade between the two kingdoms - Dale was years away from being the prosperous dominion it once was, and with Erebor’s historical lack of experience in agriculture, the dwarves were almost entirely reliant on the elves for aid as it had once been in ages past. Balin painted a much better picture than Thorin could have, and they both knew it, hence letting the older dwarf make the argument while Thorin sat tall and proud on the throne, feeling every ounce of the weight of the crown on his head. 

As the dialogue dragged on, Thorin allowed his thoughts to wander, an exercise in absentmindedness unfitting of the King of Erebor but nonetheless, there they went, and before he could stop them the memory image of Bilbo’s quick tongue flicking the mouth of his pipe planted itself at the forefront of his mind. The recent changes in their resident hobbit were nothing short of mystifying, and equally bewildering, if only to Thorin. None in the Company spoke of anything amiss with Bilbo - _quite content_ and _rather enjoying himself_ they told him when Thorin asked after his wellbeing - indeed they seemed to be quite entertained by the changes. While Thorin privately fretted whether Bilbo was getting enough air, cooped up in the mountain for weeks on end as he was, the Company took Bilbo’s sudden _change_ in stride, as if the hobbit’s audaciousness was not worth the shock and confusion. 

For weeks Thorin had wracked his brain for possible reasons, coming up with dozens of ways to account for Bilbo’s actions that never seemed to hit the mark. He kept coming back to illness, though Óin constantly reassured him during his weekly visit that the hobbit was “Quite in the bloom of health, not even a scratch on ‘im. Now let’s see how well that hole in your side is healing up, eh?” 

Thranduil was droning on, delighting in the sound of his own voice, Thorin was sure; he was half tempted to rest an elbow on the arm of his throne and drop his head in his hand and just sleep away the rest of the proceedings. For the sake of Erebor - for the sake of his people, who continued to arrive in droves every other week - he could not indulge his desire to spout vehemence at the elvenking, even though the words (and there were many) were blistering his tongue every moment he kept silent. Letting Balin take command of the proceedings was for everyone’s benefit. 

Thorin gripped both arms of the throne and sighed, trying to think of ways to distract himself from the low-burn of his anger at being in the same room as Thranduil as well as his boredom when relief whispered warmly in his ear. 

“Spread your legs any wider and you’re going to give me ideas,” said a voice just over his right shoulder, so quietly that if it weren’t for the feeling of his cheeks burning Thorin would have thought it a trick of the air. Erebor could be so dark and still and silent, and sensory depravation could affect even the most seasoned dwarves into seeing and hearing things. But this was no conjuration of the mind, but quite clearly the voice of a very particular person. Thorin fought a losing battle with the blood rushing to his face and turned his head slightly, glancing at the empty space to his right. He frowned. There was no mistaking Bilbo’s voice, even quiet and half-smothered by the rise and fall of the conversation between Balin and Thranduil; but the hobbit was nowhere to be seen. 

Thorin had to resist getting up out of his seat and looking around the back of the throne to see if Bilbo was perhaps hiding. He shook off the niggling sensation of _presence_ and tried to redirect his focus back to the important matters at hand when a warm puff of air brushed against the shell of his ear. 

“I wish they’d take their prattle elsewhere. There are more pressing matters to attend to that have nothing to do with crops.” 

Thorin startled in his seat and smothered his sound of bewilderment with a grunt. He’d had similar thoughts before, he knew, in moments of weakness when his imagination warred with his better sense and his imagination won: even kings have their fantasies, and Thorin was nothing if not a king. The amount of time he’d spent daydreaming while on the road to Erebor was next to nothing, consumed as he was with his singular goals; it was only in dreams that his fantasies played out and he’d wake up breathless, clutching his bedroll and willing his blood to cool. If anyone saw him in such a state, none spoke of it.

In Erebor, in the aftermath of the battle, a new conflict had arisen in Thorin’s mind: that of his unconscious dreams turning hard and fast into active, conscious daydreams which clashed violently with his decision to leave Master Baggins alone in peace. On the latter he was resolved and had been from the moment he’d woken on his presumed deathbed and discovered Bilbo was still there, fretting needlessly over a dwarf who had forfeited the rights to all trust and friendship the moment he’d laid hands against Bilbo on the ramparts. As if Azog’s blade running him through wasn’t pain enough, the decision to remove himself for the sake of his… _friend_ was worser still. 

 _It is only right,_ he’d told the Company. But where there was one of the Company, there was Bilbo, and it wasn’t long before Thorin had found himself choked off from nearly everyone save for Balin and Dwalin, his nephews, and Óin out of necessity. Their constant reassurances that _all is forgiven_ and _the Company misses the company of their leader_ had done nothing to deter Thorin for many months, and he was certain Bilbo would be on his way back to the Shire soon enough, taking Thorin’s heart away with him without ever being aware. _It is only right._

But then came the evening in the Company mess hall, the moment when Bilbo had revealed the pipe Thorin had crafted for him for the first time since its bestowal, and for a moment Thorin allowed himself to believe what the others had been saying all along. He had never seen Bilbo use that pipe in public, not once, sparingly though he’d beheld the hobbit since the night of his coronation; seeing it in the hobbit’s clever hands had quickened Thorin’s heart. 

But the look he’d given Thorin while bent over the flickering light of Dwalin’s match had befuddled him entirely. Thorin had fled the room shortly thereafter, too harried to stand there and watch Bilbo mouth at the stem a moment longer. That incident, as well as each one that followed after, Thorin had explained away with words like _smothered_ and _not in his right mind,_ and if he was feeling particularly bemused, Thorin would tell himself it had all been his imagination exacerbated by tricks of the light. The gold sickness had shown Thorin much, his ability to _imagine things_ chief among them. 

Thus he’d explained away Bilbo’s acting strangely, until now, when he heard Bilbo’s voice in his ear and felt his air as surely as if the hobbit were seated on the arm of the throne and leaning into his space. Every glance over his shoulder showed nothing but open air, but there was another puff of warm air against his cheek now. His imagination had reached a fever pitch, apparently, going so far as to speak _for_ Bilbo when he wasn’t there and certainly would never say such things. 

“How far down does that blush travel, I wonder?” 

Thorin feigned great interest in Thranduil’s long-winded speech about _integrity of the elves_ by holding a hand up and pressing the length of a finger against his mouth and resting his right elbow on the arm of the throne. Leaning his chin into the heel of his palm, he managed to conceal the uncontrolled spasms of his mouth just barely, but there was no covering up the blush, and he knew from the briefest flicker of confusion on Thranduil’s otherwise impassive face that he was undoubtedly very, _very_ red. 

“You’re not imagining anything,” said the voice, warm and thick as the honey they’d devoured at Beorn’s house, still little more than a whisper. “If you’re determined to play dumb, well…” There came the lightest touch then, not against his skin but against the silver cuff pierced through the rounded shell of his ear. Thorin jerked away and shook his head to rid himself of the hallucinations, because surely that’s what this was - an elaborate ruse of his own devices.

“I can still feel you pressed against my back,” came another whisper. Thorin told himself he hadn’t just _shuddered_ and redoubled his efforts to focus on Balin’s words. 

“I’m sure we’re all agreed on the matter of reparations. King Bard has long since pledged himself as an ally to Erebor…”  

“Dull,” said the voice in Thorin’s ear, now low and closer still: “I’d happily provide entertainment, but somehow I don’t think you’d appreciate it with an audience.” 

Thranduil’s loud, long-suffering sigh came as a shock to everyone, including those elves in his retinue. Balin’s words were cut short when Thranduil announced clearly and quite dispassionately: “If King Thorin is determined to treat with me, I would ask that he settle matters with the hobbit _outside_ this assembly. I did not travel many days to listen to a halfling speak of his salacious inclinations toward His Majesty.”

Thorin was too caught up in Thranduil addressing him as ‘his majesty’ to notice the disappearance of the presence from the arm of his throne. Balin was quick to respond and soothe the elvenking’s ruffled feathers. 

“It is in all of our best interests to come to an agreement, and King Thorin is most assured of our ability to do so.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” said Thranduil, and slowly his expression shifted into one of smug knowing, his eyebrows rising minutely. “But it seems your burglar is determined to distract him, regardless of the importance of these talks.” He nodded at something over Thorin’s shoulder, who blanched and looked slowly to his right. 

There was Bilbo, leaning on his arm against the throne and looking boldly up at Thorin with a teasing little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. If the hobbit was at all embarrassed at having been found out, he made no sign. Indeed, every iota of his attention was for Thorin alone, and the dwarf struggled under the weight of such intense focus and _why was he smiling like that?_

Caught in Bilbo’s line of sight, Thorin failed to notice Balin announcing a brief recess and the mass exit of everyone else from the throne room; only when the great door closed with a deep _boom_ did Thorin realize he was alone, and who with. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You barely spoke to me. For months, Thorin. You distanced yourself from the Company, from me. You…” Bilbo’s ranting died off and his sigh was soft and broken, and Thorin hurt to hear it: “You were avoiding me. And I hated it.”

Bilbo spoke before Thorin could remember how to work the paralyzed muscle in his mouth. “You used to be far more eloquent, if memory serves — or perhaps I was right to underestimate dwarves on the whole?” 

Thorin remembered the moment, the better of the two, shared between he and Bilbo on the ramparts: “ _It means, Master Baggins: you should never underestimate dwarves.”_

His tongue felt cold and heavy, but it worked. “What?” Barely. 

Bilbo smiled and huffed a breathy laugh. The sound thrilled and baffled Thorin in equal measure. Bilbo looked him square in the eye, moving his arm off the throne and standing upright. Thorin felt the loss of his close proximity keenly.

“If I make it any more obvious I worry you’ll spontaneously burst into flames, and then where would we be? Thranduil can’t very well treat with a pile of ash.” Bilbo seemed to be talking to himself more so than Thorin, but the dwarf listened closely to each word just the same. Suddenly Bilbo’s eyes lit up as if from within and he looked at Thorin with a much smaller, more intimate smile. “You thought you were imagining it, what I did just now,” he said. Thorin gaped at him. 

“I thought…my mind has played tricks on me before, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo shook his head. “And I don’t mean to make light of that, not a jot. But you did, didn’t you? Think you were imagining things?” 

Thorin couldn’t stop the blush even if he wanted to. It seemed answer enough for Bilbo, who appeared to be caught between two wildly different expressions. On the one hand, he seemed quite chuffed by Thorin’s response (and lack thereof), but on the other he looked almost sad, as if his being right was not the answer he wanted. 

“Thorin…” Bilbo said, and his voice was hushed again. 

“Were you hiding behind the throne the whole time?” Thorin asked, not liking the direction Bilbo’s thoughts seemed to be headed. The hobbit blinked and Thorin tried not to fluster at the way his eyelashes brushed the tops of his cheekbones so softly. It was Bilbo’s turn to blush. 

“Y-e-e-e-s?” he intoned. Neither was convinced, but Thorin didn’t particularly care one way or the other. The hobbit had been brought on the journey for his ability to be neither seen nor heard, and here was further proof. 

“And you meant for Thranduil to hear you?” 

Bilbo definitely turned red then, much to Thorin’s delight. 

“That was unfortunate, I grant you,” said Bilbo, “I won’t pretend I wasn’t mortified for a second.” 

“Only a second?” 

They looked at each other for a long moment, longer than any they’d shared in weeks, and something in Bilbo appeared to break. He spoke in a rush and all at once, reaching out with both hands to grasp the edge of Thorin’s throne until his knuckles whitened: “You keep doing this, this ebbing and flowing like you can’t decide whether you want me or want nothing to do with me and it’s driven me absolutely _mad,_ do you understand? It’s any wonder the Company hasn’t taken to calling me ‘Mad Baggins’ with how I’ve been acting around them these last months. _Months,_ Thorin,” Bilbo groaned as if pained. “If you want nothing to do with me, for the love of Durin, have the decency to tell me plainly and save me the suffering.” 

The words were a tumult in Thorin’s brain, but the last ones caught him like a fish hook in his heart. He shifted in his seat, leaning toward Bilbo and looking at him in earnest. “Have you been suffering? I would have you tell me.” 

“I just did!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I’ve _been_ suffering since the moment you gave me that damned pipe and told me to all but forget about you.” 

“I said no such thing. I only meant to give you space for the duration of your stay.” 

“You barely spoke to me. For _months,_ Thorin. You distanced yourself from the Company, from _me._ You…” Bilbo’s ranting died off and his sigh was soft and broken, and Thorin hurt to hear it: “You were avoiding me. And I hated it.” 

The words sunk in slowly. Thorin could feel his heart beating against his chest. “So all of your—” he waved his hand, a noncommittal gesture meant to encompass all of Bilbo’s behavior over the last few weeks “—recent actions have been to sway me from my decision?” 

“If by ‘actions’ you mean my flirting and if by ‘decision’ you mean your own foolishness in thinking I no longer desired your friendship or _you_ for that matter, then yes, that is precisely what it was all for. I only wish it hadn’t taken Thranduil noticing for us to finally have this conversation. Although it does make me feel better knowing you were simply oblivious and not averse.”

Thorin didn’t have the words. There were so many statements to take away from Bilbo’s little speech that he hardly knew where to start. Bilbo seemed to realize then all he’d said and proceeded to flit through several unique expressions before settling on what looked like conviction. Thorin worked his jaw. The muscles jumping in his temples moved the crown up and down slightly, and feeling impatient he removed it and set it behind him on the arm of the throne. He cleared the cotton wool sensation in his throat with a grunt. 

“Want me?” 

“Beg your pardon?”

Thorin ducked his chin slightly. “Just now, you said it: ‘as if I no longer desired your friendship or _you_.’” He looked Bilbo in the eye, and he was amazed he didn’t burst into flames like Bilbo had predicted; the hobbit’s smile was blinding and it burned him to his core. 

“Did you think I was doing inappropriate things with the pipe _you made for me_ for _my_ benefit? Not to say getting to watch you blush and stammer wasn’t always my distinct privilege,” said Bilbo, and even Thorin couldn’t mistake the hobbit’s raking glance in the direction of his mouth for what it was. He darted his tongue out before he could stop himself, wetting his bottom lip - a purely instinctive reaction to that kind of look.

Bilbo’s eyes followed the motion regardless of Thorin’s intent. “Of course I do,” he said quietly. 

“What?” Thorin had been so invested in watching the color bloom on Bilbo’s cheeks he hadn’t heard a word. Bilbo took a step forward and dragged his eyes away from Thorin’s mouth to look him in the eye. 

“I don’t want you to avoid me,” said Bilbo, sounding much more like the soft, settled hobbit Thorin had met in Bag End, quite unlike the clever, self-assured burglar who went up against dragons and kings alike without a shred of compunction. It struck Thorin then — _“For months, Thorin. Months.” —_ how foolish he’d been, thinking the two were not inextricably linked, that Bilbo was simultaneously Master Burglar and Master Baggins and also just Bilbo. As if he could be ‘just’ anything. A warm resolve settled over Thorin and he smiled as Bilbo continued speaking. “Regardless of the nature of the, ah, relationship, as it were, my only wish is that you would accept my forgiveness as much as I have long, _long_ since accepted your apology. Apologies. There’ve been too many to count but the fact remains I’ve forgiven you for all of them.” 

A beat. They both knew more needed to be said. Bilbo proved, as he had so many times before, to be far more courageous than appearances suggested. He gave a terse little nod, put his hands behind his back as if preparing to recite poetry and said: “I’d have you. I want you. Of course I do.” He made a face and gave Thorin another one of his looks. “As if my whispering innuendoes at you in the middle of a meeting with the elvenking wasn’t proof enough.” 

“Indeed.” 

“All right, and the inappropriateness with the pipe.” Thorin raised an eyebrow. Bilbo huffed and moved his arms to cross over his chest. “Andthose incidents in the library.” A smirk; a roll of the eyes. “ _And_ the time I groped myself on the steps. To be fair, it was only my neck, which was genuinely sore. You’re just easily affected. And dense.” 

“With context it certainly all makes better sense than it did at the time.” 

“What _did_ you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were being yourself,” said Thorin, and Bilbo looked genuinely surprised. “I knew if I did not withdraw I would eventually succumb to my whims, which went entirely against my belief that you wanted nothing to do with me.” At his look, Thorin bowed his head but held Bilbo’s gaze. “I now realize my judgement was grossly incorrect and my feelings misplaced.” He paused for a breath and felt his gaze soften the longer he looked at the hobbit, who smiled. 

“Entirely misplaced,” said Bilbo. “They should be out there somewhere,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the gates; then without hesitation he clambered up to sit on the arm of the throne in front of Thorin, as-you-like. “I’ll not have them anywhere near this mountain. It was hard-won and I’ll not lose it to a couple of marauding rogues for a song.” 

Thorin saw the pretty shadow theater of Bilbo’s words for what it was. He twisted further in his seat to face the hobbit and smiled at him, rather enjoying the fact that they were on the same eye-level for once. “And by ‘mountain’ I assume you mean me,” he said, parroting Bilbo’s earlier words. The hobbit was the one to blush this time. 

“Yes yes, pot; kettle.” 

Thorin glanced at the distant door and, satisfied that it was shut and certain that Balin could managing the situation with Thranduil well enough on his own, turned his months of repressed everything on to Bilbo, who wavered where he sat. “Oh,” Bilbo gasped, reading Thorin’s expression as he would a particularly perplexing book before coming to the point. “ _Oh._ ” 

Thorin suddenly remembered Bilbo’s earlier comment about his lack of eloquence and decided to amend the hobbit’s impressions. With an arch smile pulling at his lips, Thorin slid off the throne onto his feet; as he moved around to stand before Bilbo, the hobbit worked quickly to turn with him, still sitting pretty on the arm of the throne with his legs spread, looking rather like he belonged there. The previously quashed dream Thorin had had, of Bilbo wearing his ring and a coronet of mithril, perching on the throne during meetings like the one Thorin had just been in, returned in full force. His heart leapt knowing he was now allowed; that he was forgiven, and had been for quite some time. 

Watching Thorin move to stand before him, Bilbo seemed to catch on quickly and scooted up to the edge of his seat. Thorin stepped into the waiting cradle of Bilbo’s thighs and planted his hands on either side of his hips, leaning in. 

“Spread your legs any wider and you’re going to give me ideas, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo realized immediately that Thorin had just fed him his own line and went deliciously pink from his ears to the pronounced notch at the base of his throat. Thorin eyed it for a moment before giving in to the temptation with a sigh; he leaned forward to brush his lips against the hollow point, trailing a path of feather-light kisses up the long column of Bilbo’s neck. “‘How far down does that blush travel, I wonder?’” 

“Oh, _you…_ ” Bilbo’s head fell back. Thorin heard nails scraping stone and glanced down to see the hobbit’s short, rounded fingernails grasping the arm of the throne in a desperate clutch. He felt a sudden determination to get those hands on _him_ and set himself on the challenge with pleasure. 

Thorin reached up and cupped the warm joint where Bilbo’s jaw met his neck, using the leverage to press Bilbo’s cheek closer to his searching lips. The hobbit moved willingly with his guiding touch. 

“Should I start at the top and work my way down?” His response was a quiet whine; Thorin pressed in closer and placed a meaningful kiss on the underside of Bilbo’s jaw. “Or do you have something else in mind?” 

“You’re a menace, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo groaned, louder now, sighing when Thorin wrapped a hand around his upper thigh; a moan slipped out when Thorin dug his fingers in, a reaction he logged away for later use. The firm press of their bodies left no room for questioning. There was no misconstruing the shudder in the hobbit’s breath for anything other than what it was, and the more reactions Thorin wrung from Bilbo the more confident he became, satisfied that the tables had turned for the moment but secretly looking forward to what Bilbo would do in the days, weeks, _years_ ahead with the knowledge that his flirting had not gone unnoticed, that _this_ was the effect Bilbo had on him.

Thorin straightened and pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s, taking in the even coloring of the hobbit’s cheeks and the dampness of his breath against his throat. There was plenty more Thorin could say, plenty of other bawdy lines Bilbo had used on him that he could repeat back to similar effect, but then Bilbo opened his eyes, and no blush or words or suggestive looks could match the magnificence of his eyes when they were bright with pleasure, mirth, and love so undisguised even Thorin couldn’t mistake or deny it. 

Bilbo removed his hands from the stone and dug his fingers deep into the curtain of hair at the nape of Thorin’s neck, massaging the base of his skull until Thorin's knees started to shake. Thorin nudged Bilbo’s nose with his, gazing at him beseechingly and listening closely to the soft sound of his breathing in the vastness of the throne room. 

Bilbo nudged back. “Kiss me,” he said, and the words were like absolution in Thorin’s ears. 

Thorin obeyed, bridging the gap between them before Bilbo felt the need to convince him further. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame callofkathulhu and bb-blush for this almost entirely. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, because I did enjoy it - immensely. Crap. 
> 
> come say hi @ mistymountainking.tumblr.com


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